


I Will Stay with You

by Grushenka



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-28
Updated: 2018-08-28
Packaged: 2019-07-03 16:11:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15822399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grushenka/pseuds/Grushenka
Summary: Prompt: The Warden encounters Taliesin and the battle commences, but Zevran doesn’t seem to be helping out - and is quickly downed in the fray. With the possibility that he may not live through the night due to his injuries, the Warden angsts about their relationship together and wonders why they spared him in the first place.from dakinkmeme via dapromptexchange.





	I Will Stay with You

**Author's Note:**

> Find me at [ @igrushenka](https://igrushenka.tumblr.com/)

Alathea paced the halls of Arl Eamon’s estate, her body exhausted but her mind unable to rest. She had assumed that the Crows would find Zevran sooner or later, and her as well, after all she was an unfinished job. Taliesen, however, she hadn’t expected. 

Zevran had mentioned him a few times in passing, alluded to a relationship between them. They worked together and had grown close, as close as assassins could be, anyways. Alathea hadn’t wanted to know more, so she hadn’t asked. Zevran was charming, dangerous, his easy smile hid a cunning mind and cold heart. That was what she had thought, at first. There was some doubt, now, when he looked at her there were cracks in the mask he wore in front of everyone else. With her there was a softness, a hesitation when she gave him the soft, fragrant Antivan leather boots. A flash of uncertainty when she paused his story about his mother’s gloves to dig through her pack for the pair she had found in the Brecilian forest. Was it fear? She didn’t know. Alathea was buried beneath a mountain of her own regrets, endless days of mourning the loss of her family, her freedom, her _life_. She didn’t care about how anyone else felt, or at least, she thought she didn’t. 

Why did she let him live? Her bare feet padded across the thick carpets, crossed over cold stones between the long halls. A calloused hand slipped over her forehead and into hair that was a rough-cut mass of sun-bleached tangles. Maker’s breath, she had just brokered a peace deal or sorts between the werewolves and the Dalish, she had helped break the werewolves of their curse, she didn’t back away from a fight but she wouldn’t go out looking for one, either. Zevran ambushed her on her way to Redcliffe, she was traveling with Alistair, Leliana and Morrigan. She was the one who struck him down, they both wielded dual daggers but she fought with greater strength. When her left dagger finally hit flesh, it sliced deep into his abdomen. The blood, the resignation in his eyes, the faint smile that ghosted across his lips, they struck her as odd. He seemed almost relieved as he sank down on his knees, a hand clutching his side, his bright blonde hair shining in the afternoon sun.

But he didn’t die. He was Zevran Arainai, an Antivan Crow. She hadn’t heard of them before, but the thought of an international assassin’s guild was disquieting enough. Especially when they were paid to kill her. He wanted her to spare his life, according to him it was already forfeit anyways, and he promised that he would prove himself useful to her. He didn’t beg for his life. His light blue hazel eyes peered up at her unblinking, unfazed by the blood pouring out of him. This man had just attempted to kill her, he deserved death! Not only did he expect mercy, but _trust_ as well? That she would allow him to travel with them? 

Yet something in his eyes spoke to her, a deep sadness that mirrored her own. A death wish, perhaps? Maybe she saw only what she wanted to see. It was merely too soon, too close to the death of her father. A man laying on the ground, clutching a grievous wound but hiding his pain behind a smile, a laugh. Maybe she thought Zevran did it for her, as her father did. Maybe she believed she could still redeem herself, prove herself in spite of her terrible failures to those she loved most. 

Her grip on her hair tightened, she pulled at the tangled locks until they felt as if she might rip them from her scalp. She was a fool, a gullible, naive _fool_. He called her beautiful, he treated her as if her scars weren’t there at all, he acted the same towards her as men did before...gods, would the memories ever stop hurting? Her fingers slipped out from her hair and traced down her temple, over the burn scars that surrounded her eye. The long, deep gash on her cheek was almost healed but the new skin was knotted and painful. Men were capable of cruelty she had never imagined. 

Zevran was dangerous. He veiled his cold heart in a shroud of smiles and flirtations but he did as he had been trained, he had told her as much. Why tell her those things? Why tell her about the people he had murdered, the men and women he had made love to and then slaughtered in cold blood? Was this all a game to him? Was he taunting her, or was it a warning? She didn’t know. _No one is innocent, my dear Warden…_ he had told her. She had nodded in agreement, but in her heart she wondered if that was truly any consolation to him. Surely not all of his ‘marks’ deserved death, even if many did. 

She paced past the heavy wooden door separated her from Zevran. He was laid out on a bed, covered in bandages and pieced back together with whatever healing spells Wynne had left. He was grievously wounded, Taliesen had struck him with a blow that cut through a weakness in the leather armor. His liver was punctured, most likely, Wynne was unsure if he could survive the night with how much blood he had lost and was probably still losing. There was no smile on Zevran’s blood-caked lips, his mischievous eyes were closed. He was pale, too pale. Alathea couldn’t stay at his side, he wouldn’t want her there anyways. 

He was alone, Wynne had retired to her own quarters and the others as well. No one spoke of what had happened, they didn’t need to. Zevran had barely even fought back against Taliesen. He had refused to return to Antiva with his former partner, he had insisted that his place was traveling with her, but she could see the same vacancy in his expression as when they had first met. When Taliesen’s dagger came for Zevran, the elf hadn’t even tried to move out of the way. It was as if something kept him fixed to the ground, an unseen force rooted his legs to the stone beneath him. Alathea cried out and rushed towards them, she struck Taliesen down but it was too late, Zevran had already fallen to his knees. This time she was there to catch him as he plunged forward. 

His eyes stared at her blankly. She didn’t know that it was another woman he saw as he fell, an elven woman with raven locks framing her beautiful, feline face. Alathea cried for help, but all he heard were cries for mercy. Cries that he had ignored. 

Zevran’s wouldn’t want her there with him, Alathea was sure of it. He was practically born into slavery, as he told it his life was one of survival and finding pleasures wherever he could. He didn’t trust anyone, as far as she could tell, and he certainly never let his guard down. His was a pleasant facade, a cheerful, teasing, flippant one, but the iciness beneath it came out whenever he was pushed too far. Like when they searched for the Urn of Sacred Ashes, he had snapped at the guardian and his obnoxious questioning. 

_Yes, yes, if you must know then yes, I do regret it!_ She was surprised at the time, he had made it seem like he didn’t regret anything in his past. So began the cracks, the nagging uncertainty that maybe all wasn’t quite as it seemed. Maybe it wasn’t wishful thinking, maybe there really was some sort of kindred spirit between them, maybe he meant it when he told her how lovely she was to him. Perhaps the disappointment that flashed in his eyes when she spurned his offers to join her in her tent wasn’t just an act. 

Alathea stood outside the door, her cheek pressed against it. Had she made the right decision by sparing his life? He had kept up his end of the bargain, he had never faltered in his loyalty to her. Strangely enough Zevran was more uneasy around her than she around him, he asked her questions about what she planned to do with him in the future as if he was her property. Betrayal, debts to be paid, murder, that was Zevran’s world, not hers. No matter how many times she told him that he was free to do as he wished, it seemed as if he either didn’t understand or didn’t want to. Doubts tugged at the far reaches of her thoughts, fears that he only stayed with her because he was going to finish the job one day. When she asked herself why she had let him live, she had few answers. 

Her fingers traced across the rough-hewn wood planks of the door, some part of her wanted to be in there with him. She couldn’t stand to leave him there alone, to suffer alone. To...die..alone. The idea that he might not survive the night summoned a flood of unwelcome emotions, she swallowed down the fear that rose in her throat. She, Alathea Cousland, was a Gray Warden. They were in the middle of a Blight. This was no time for sentiment or attachment, most of all to a suicidal elven assassin.

Soft groaning stirred her from her thoughts. Zevran’s voice, she could hear it through the door. Her heartbeat quickened, her hand went to the latch but she caught herself. What if he didn’t want her there, what if he didn’t want to be...alive? Would he be disappointed to see her? 

The latch lifted quietly, the hinges were well-oiled and silent. Alathea’s bare feet were silent as well, she crept softly into the dimly lit room. A single candle burned on a small wooden table that was beside a bed covered in pillows and soft fabrics. They were mostly heaped at the foot of the mattress, her eyes adjusted to the scant light and she could make out the outline of Zevran’s bandaged body. She stood there for a few moments, motionless, watching the steady, slow rise and fall of Zevran’s bare chest. He was stripped down to his smallclothes, she tried to ignore the shadows the candle cast across his slender, muscular limbs. 

A soft moan cut through the silence. Zevran’s brows were tightly knitted, she could see beads of sweat on his forehead. He was in pain.

His lips parted and she heard him murmuring something that she couldn’t quite hear. Alathea crept closer, careful to keep her footsteps soft so as not to disturb him. 

“Perdona...mi,” he whispered, his voice barely making it past his dry, cracked lips. “Ti...ho abbandonato...” 

Alathea hadn’t ever let Zevran know, but she had picked up a book of Antivan phrases off a bookshelf in Denerim. She had learned some Orlesian when she was younger and a bit of Dalish as well. It was a hobby of hers, so Antivan had come rather easily. 

_Forgive me, I have abandoned you._ Did he know she was there? Or was he speaking to someone else? 

Alathea drew closer still. The bandages around Zevran’s torso were blood-soaked. If he heard her move near him, he gave no indication. 

She stood above him, her tall frame covered in only a thin tunic, but she didn’t notice the chill in the night air. He looked so small on the large mattress, so vulnerable. Alathea had no idea how old he was, she had never asked, she assumed he was older than her. His bright blonde hair was caked with blood and dirt, no one had dared to bathe him, they were hesitant enough to tend to his wounds. It was one thing to accept Zevran’s company, but it was quite another to touch him, to invade his privacy and step within dangerously close proximity. She was still afraid of him, there was the nagging suspicion that if she drew too near she would find herself at the point of a dagger hidden beneath his pillow. 

It was a strange thing, to see such a deadly, formidable man laid out on a bed, alone. Wounded, unconscious, racked with pain and fever dreams. Alathea wanted to comfort him, but she had no idea _how_.

She slowly lowered herself to the cold stone floor beside his bed. She couldn’t leave him alone, not like this. The candle flickered in the dark, Zevran’s breaths came slowly, his lungs rattled with blood and fluid. Alathea would do the only thing she knew how to, she would stay with him, silent. She would be there with him no matter what happened, as she would be for any of those who risked their lives to fight by her side. She would be at his side to make up for those she was forced to abandon. 

Alathea’s head rolled against the side of the mattress, her hair just cresting over the top of it. Her body slumped against the bed frame, she wrapped her arms around herself and fought back a shiver. Sleep tugged at her eyelids and she struggled against it, but she was soon plunged into a deep, dreamless rest. She didn’t feel Zevran’s fingers as they sought her out, as his hand slipped between the matress and the soft skin of her cheek. Dark hearts with broken souls, but they were together in that moment, alone. They offered each other what little comfort they knew how to give.


End file.
